


The Night Bus

by cinemascope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allydia - Freeform, Angst, Canon Compliant, Coda, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Moving On, Post-Episode: s03e24 The Divine Move, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinemascope/pseuds/cinemascope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place immediately after Lydia final scene in ‘The Divine Move.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Bus

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by ([x](http://darren-criss.tumblr.com/post/80731688794/when-i-see-this-i-see-lydia-looking-at-malia))
> 
>  _"She takes the night bus home_  
>  She's not faced by the darkness in her soul  
> And you barely catch a glimpse of her  
> Cause she's wrapped tightly hiding in her clothes" - Lucy Rose

Her eyes fall numb at Malia Tate.

It burns, like a salt grain to Allison’s open wound. It seeps without mercy, graining deep within Lydia’s flesh. The bitterness lies thick. Malia's face, a sickly-sweet comparison that coats like a decadent icing. Lydia cracks it off, with a back stiffened. Next to her, Kira is briefly mesmerised. Her sparkling eyes absorb Malia, as the new girl glistens down the hall in a slip of momentary glory. Malia stops in dead in track, with a conversation between herself and Coach Finstock losing itself to the abundance of high school voices.

With lips pursed, Lydia takes an acute step forward. The murmurs of her peers fall silent, the shuffling of sneakers die mute, and the presence of Kira escapes her. And there –for what seems like a moment – Lydia sees Allison.

Her sleek, shocking brown eyes with a speck of ivory against the pupil, the blossom-pink curvature of her lips, and the milky complexion of her hands against the dilute green lockers. The illusion is thin and ghostly, yet Lydia responds with a heavy heart of emotion.

(Apparitions of the passed friend have shimmered in and out of Lydia’s life for days endless. Passing smiles, glances and touches of the hands – all to remind Lydia that _yes, there is someone or some_ thing _still watching you and yes_ _for god’s sake it will be_ okay _._ The feeling had been like no other; the girl was longing for days she could begin to grieve again. Perhaps even for Aiden. After all, a set of dull lips and zombified eyes could not radiate the sororal heart forever)

And this vision – this one seems so far out of reach. Too intangible to grasp, yet too ethereal to ignore. It’s a terrifying paradox which shivers Lydia to her bone. Sixteen years of age, Allison loosely hooks her bag over her shoulder and brushes a pitiful strand of hair behind her ear. She is lost in her own innocence, and falls into the hunger of a prep-induced Lydia, with red ringlets and bouncing fingers abound. There is so much vitality, so much contentment.

Lydia almost vomits from it all. 

Watching the two vapid heads engage in a newborn-banter is an overbearing warmth to Lydia. It melts away the thick ice, ceasing it to a melting pool by her lungs.  Drowning, slowly.

_The new girl, Allison Argent. Nearly seventeen, held back a grade. Moves around a lot. Creepy family. Has the hots for the asthmatic Lacrosse dork._

Lydia so desperately wants to run over there, ring her arms around the young-Allison and indulge in her entirety. Yet here she stands, paralysed in a marble statue of fear and alienation. That locker, _over there_ , is where Allison began her story. And right there, _by Malia’s hand_ , is where she breathes again.

And so, with a light flaring in her eyes, Lydia walks onwards to the illusion. She sees the small smile creep up on her best friend’s face, presumably from eyeing Scott for the first time.  Another step forward and the world around her descends into a gentle, slow, motion. A moment flickers. The stench of _bardo_ reeks through her bones.

Shining lights begin to dazzle the illusion, cursing Lydia into an abundance of trickery and mist. She carefully raises a porcelain arm and slicks her fingers out in one motion. It’s a sad, pathetic and desperate clench towards something entirely unfathomable.   

The burden of grief stings her again. It’s sharp and painful, a jab to the abdomen. With all words never said, all moments never shared, it seems so unfair for this vision to be fading so quick. Why can Lydia not simply walk towards the beginning? Why can't the _Banshee_ of it all, reset the cycle and rewind to the start? Surely, someone who harbours death on her fingertips could crack the depths of time and space at will?

Then again, perhaps the greatest strength of them all is to live when left behind.

“I like your jacket,” Lydia spins Malia by the shoulder. “Where’s it from?”

“My…jacket?” Malia stumbles.

“It’s cute.”

“I dunno,” She replies, closing a locker door. “The thrift store, I guess.”

Lydia flicks her head over one shoulder, and flashes a grin at Kira. Then, back to Malia.

“ _You_ are my new best friend.”


End file.
